


Somewhere In-Between

by llama_at_221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Divorce, F/F, GAY TEENAGERS WHOM I LOVE, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Sherlock Does Ballet, Stage Helper!John, Teen!John, Teen!Sherlock, Teenlock, Unilock, balletlock, can't stop me, genderfluid!sherlock, i'm on a writing rampage, lotsa balletlock, moran is awful, moran's a bully, nehehe, oh gosh, performer!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-11
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2018-10-02 22:41:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10229318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llama_at_221b/pseuds/llama_at_221b
Summary: Sherlock has been a ballet dancer for years with his best friend Molly, who helps him through everything, like finding out he was gay and genderfluid. The newest performance is Swan Lake, a classic, quite easy, but still beautiful. John Watson, in an attempt to get more time away from home and his abusive father, gets involved in the behind-the-scenes of the performance. He's helping out with lighting and set design, that sort of thing, when he meets the fantastic dancer, and truly learns the meaning of 'somewhere in-between'.





	1. The Palace Theatre

**Author's Note:**

> I should be writing my other fics. But I'm not. #sorrynotsorry  
>  heyy i'm bored. I need inspiration. Find me on tumblr, please. I changed my url to starlit-soul.

The Palace Theatre had been home to many, many shows over the years.

It was old, rusted, and slightly crumbling, but was still a land of dreams for its few performers. The musicians; violinists, pianists, and cellists were in short supply and while the Palace taught as well as gave shows, not many young people had entered the theatre’s music program. Dancing was a more popular lesson set, but there wasn’t a lot of new dancers. Many of the ballerinas and danseur nobles had been studying there for years.

Like Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was not an average teenager. He went to Baker Street University, took Chemistry, Art, Dance, and Biology to name a few, and seemed almost normal.

Almost.

He had sharp cheekbones, dark, curly hair, ever-changing eyes, pale, almost glowing skin that never saw the sun, but most of all, he had a brain like no other.

He could memorize complex choreography in seconds. Could master anything he set his mind to, quite literally. Could read a person like a book.

He came from a regular (although slightly insanely rich) family who just happened to have two astoundingly genius sons, himself and his brother Mycroft.

Sherlock had been dancing since the age of three, when his parents decided that it was time to get him to stop ripping the heads off various toys to see what the insides looked like, and get him interested in something. He took to dancing immediately, danced for fifteen years, and always danced when he felt extreme emotion that he didn’t know how to handle. When he discovered that he was genderfluid it helped to have a sort-of-friend called Molly.

Molly danced with him through the years. She helped him through many things, like him discovering that he liked men and was genderfluid. Although her crush on him was dashed into the sidewalk, she got over it fairly quickly and reveled instead in the fact that she was the only one he let into his life. Except for Irene.

Irene was a conundrum. Her father owned the Palace, and she was always hanging around, pretending to be evil, when in reality, she was just highly gay and bored out of her skull. Sherlock liked to say that he found this out, but really it was Molly. They took to her immediately. Well, Molly did anyways.

When Sherlock realized exactly who he was and why he wanted to wear skirts, Molly lent him her swishy black skirt, and Sherlock had come over. He’d put it on, and Sherlock and Molly hugged and cried. Sherlock sometimes had days when he felt wrong in his own skin, like he was just wearing it and it wasn’t really him. Molly called these his ‘fem-days’, and the name stuck. It wasn’t like Sherlock had a proper name that felt right for what was happening, and having Molly there to help him with it was calming.

On one such fem-day, he wore a short black skirt over his ballet tights when he walked to the Palace.

He should have anticipated that was not a good idea.

Sebastian Moran, local bully, and known homophobe, as well as his entire gang of bullies, all four of them, apprehended Sherlock a few blocks away from the Palace. Sherlock tried to just walk past him, but Moran moved in front of his path.

“Where do you think you’re going, freak?” he sneered, sizing Sherlock up with a glare. His goons snickered. Sebastian’s eyes caught on his skirt, and he looked horrified for a few seconds, before smirking and bringing his gaze back up to Sherlock’s face, arms crossed. “Well, well, well,” he growled, fury apparent in his voice, “it seems you _are_ a pouf.” He straightened up to his full height while his friends sneered and jeered, drawing back the first punch.

After they were done and gone, Sherlock stood up and brushed himself off. They had managed to hit him everywhere that wasn’t visible with clothing on _. They don’t even need proper provocation,_ Sherlock thought _, their small minds simply need someone who slightly deviates from the big-tough-macho-man and skinny-full-breasted-woman stereotypes, and they’re beating it down with no provocation._ He sighed, picked up his dance bag, and continued walking, even though his legs hurt.

He was going to be late.

            *****************************************************  
In a tiny flat a few kilometres away from the Palace, a young boy by the name John sat by a window, waiting for his dad to leave for the bar so he could get down to the theatre he was going to help out at. It would be the prime opportunity for him to escape his insane and terrifying home life for a few more hours each day, and who was to say he wouldn’t meet a nice girl? He wanted to think ‘boy’, too, but his father’s violent homophobia had scared him into forcing himself to think ‘straight’. And that meant girl.

John Hamish Watson was bisexual. Of course, he could never say this out loud, or his very homophobic dad would beat him so hard he would quite literally be killed. His dad had almost made an example of that with his sister, Harriet, - or Harry - who’d come out as lesbian almost two years ago and had just managed to escape with her life and her lover, Clara.

John hadn’t seen her since. He really missed his sister.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to loss; he’s lost his mother when he was only four. After she’d died, the two younger Watsons got the privilege of watching their dad get addicted to drink and become abusive because of it. All in all, life hadn’t really given them a fair chance.

But after Harry left, John found things he could do to spend less time at home and more time safe. Rugby was his main retreat, as he could practice for hours and hours and no one would think it odd. But today, he was acting on what his science teacher, Mrs. Smallwood, told him; to help out at the Palace. Mrs. Smallwood thought it would be good for him to get a better understanding of high-stress situations, like if a dancer tripped, or a piece of machinery malfunctioned. John thought it was a great idea.

Luckily, there was a free behind the scenes program for teens 17-19. John fit perfectly in that range, as he was 18. He enrolled, and was just waiting now for his dad to leave so he could sneak off and get there.

Mr. Watson pulled on his coat and left, not even bothering to say goodbye to John, who didn’t mind. He didn’t really want to talk to his dad anyways, not after last night. His jaw and ribcage felt sore just thinking about it.

Once he heard the cab pull away from the flat, John hopped up, pulling a loose grey hoodie over his pale blue shirt. He left, locking the door behind him. His dad wouldn’t notice he was gone. He’d be too drunk to even care.  
  
John glanced at his watch and sighed. His dad had taken longer than usual getting ready.  
  
He was going to be late.


	2. sometimes it isn't so simple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some character building between Molly and Sherls. Man, I love these two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey its me im back!! havent worked on this fic in forever!!!! sorry!!!!!!!!! im not dead
> 
> *note: im genderfluid and pansexual. thanks this has been a psa

The Palace’s first floor, the entry floor, was enormous. As the whole place was. When you stepped through the door, the first thing you saw was a huge staircase with a red carpet leading up to the second floor. If you looked to your left, you saw a few hallways on the first floor, and a magnificent balcony on the second. If you looked to your right, you saw the same as the left.

Even though it was sentimental, Sherlock inexplicably loved the old place. He loved its practice rooms where he could dance for hours on end, stretch and pirouette and plie and fancy saute and oodles of fouette. Sherlock loved dancing so much. He loved the beautiful ceilings and glorious huge stage on the second floor, where so much energy was focused - all the stagehands and all the directors and actors and dancers and musicians, condensed. He especially loved putting on a show, being in a show. It was so beautiful to finally be part of a community, especially with people like Molly and Irene who understood queer life struggles and how dance was important. 

Sherlock arrived at the Palace at exactly 8:22. He was supposed to be there at eight every night, but because of Sebastian’s appearance, he was late. He stepped into the carpeted building, hefting his dance bag, and was immediately greeted by a concerned Molly. 

“Where were you?” she asked, slipping out from nowhere. Sherlock nearly jumped. 

“Don’t do that!” he grumbled, shaking himself off. She flashed an apologetic grin. 

“Sorry. You’re late, you’re never late,” she continued, worry woven into her voice. “I worry about you, you know - also! You’re never late.”

Sherlock cracked a smile despite himself. “I’m fine, I promise. Just Seb and his idiotic goons.” he replied, voice dripping with disgust. “I worry about you too,” he added after a moment, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Molly made a face. “I hate him. I hate that he hurts you. I hate it so much.” At his addition, she smiled. Sherlock was never so open. “Thank you. But you don’t have to. I haven’t ever got into any sort of trouble, except -”

“That one time with Mike,” Sherlock finished for her, turning a corner and giggling with her. “It wasn’t even that bad. He kissed you and the librarian found you. You sobbed for three -”

“Four days,” Molly corrected, her step bouncy and making her skirt floof attractively. Sherlock assumed. Females were aesthetically pleasing, he supposed, and he could tell if a girl was “cute” according to society’s standards, but he never felt any sort of romantic or sexual attraction. He brushed aside his thoughts - Molly was asking him something.

“Sherlock! Are you there?” she asked, tugging on his elbow. “Yes, sorry,” Sherlock replied, snapped out of his reverie. “I’m trying to ask you - did you hear about the new stagehand that’s going to be joining us tonight?”

“Oh. No. Why?”

“He’s supposed to be cute,” Molly replied, twirling a lock of hair around her finger.

“You’re dating Irene.”

“I know! I can look, I just can’t order - and I meant him for you,” Molly laughed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, walking the final stretch to the practice rooms they preferred. “Who is he? Would I know him?”

“Maybe. He’s rugby captain? John Watson, I think his name was.”

Sherlock stopped, merriment draining out of his face. “What?” Molly asked, unsure of what she’d said that set him off.   
“Rugby captain?” Sherlock asked incredulously. “Why does he want to be a stagehand? Why the Palace? Oh, god. He’s going to make fun of me every day. He’s going to team up with Moran and they’re going to ‘beat the queer out of me’.” His breath came faster. Molly gripped his arm. 

“Sherlock!” she called sharply, snapping her fingers in front of his face. “Sherlock! Listen to me,” she said, voice hard as stone, forcing him to look at her in the eyes and bending him down to do so, “I’m not going to let that happen. This is your safe place - I date the girl who runs it, and if I tell her that John’s hurting you, she’s going to kick his ass out. But I don’t think he will, and do you know why?”

Sherlock shook his head. Molly calming him down from a panic attack was supremely comforting.

“He’s different. No, don’t give me that look. He is. I’ve met him - he stopped a girl from making fun of me and Irene.”

“Irene and I,” Sherlock mumbled, forever correcting grammar. He still looked spooked.

“Whatever. Just - try to meet him, okay? You two would make a really cute couple.” Sherlock nodded reluctantly, and Molly released his arm. He straightened his back. “Thank you.” he acknowledged, and Molly, ever kind and helpful, nodded back. 

“I know it isn’t that simple,” she said, “but he’s nice. You can trust me.” And then she was back to chatting brightly about a date she and Irene had been on the previous night. Sherlock followed her into the practice room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading!!  
> leave a comment so i can feed my children. think of the kids. theyre starving. they need pop tarts

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are my lifeblood.


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